Again, they pass without even looking in my direction.

I frown and look at Harper. “Why aren’t they paying attention?”

“Because you sound dead, Mo,” she says with a laugh. “It’s like you’ve never done this before. Here, watch and learn. SAVE AMARA!” she cries, throwing the pin into the crowded aisle.

The next person—a World of Warcraft cosplayer—stops and takes one. “Oh, cool! I heard about this.”

“There’s a petition to revive her—”

“Although it’s not official,” I interject. There’s no way I could see the studio ever acknowledging something like this. Harper shoots me a strange look, so I quickly add, “But please can you sign it?”

“Sure!” They sign without so much as another word, buy two of Harper’s fanarts, and move on their way.

After they’re gone Harper says, “See, it’s easy. Just, you know, make it sound like you care.”

“I do care!” Not.

“Mmm-hm. Are you okay, Imogen? You seem a little—”

The phone in my pocket dings.

I set an alert for tweets by the person who stole my script. Another ding, and then another, and another, and people begin pulling out their phones. Even Harper takes out hers.

Frightened, I do too.

Another page from the script:

Looks like we’re in for some stormy weather;)

PS – Can you guess where I am? A surprise might be coming if you can find me!

I feel the urge to vomit. They’re taunting me.

[INT. THE NOXIAN COURT –– late evening]

A group of soldiers push CARMINDOR, tied up and beaten, into the middle of the council. CARMINDOR stumbles and collapses onto the dais. Blood drips from his mouth, where he has been punched repeatedly. The NOX KING’s throne sits empty, and beside it PRINCESS AMARA’s.

Her empty seat is bittersweet, and her voice in CARMINDOR’s head returns –

AMARA (V.O.)

Look how you’ve fallen, ah’blen. I warned you not to play with fire.

CARMINDOR struggles to his knees in front of the council.

CARMINDOR

Let me go or you’ll face the wrath of the Federation ––

MYSTERIOUS VOICE

Oh, my dear brother, can we not talk peace? We have both suffered such a tremendous loss at the hands of the Black Nebula.

CARMINDOR

(through gritted teeth)

You have suffered nothing of the same.

A figure steps out from behind the throne, clad in threads of gold that glow like the sun. At the sight of him, the council bows as if to a god.

CARMINDOR cannot believe his eyes.

CARMINDOR

You?

Now’s my chance. I have to find this trash human before the worst happens.

The script is being held up this time, the background is blurry. I squint, trying to focus it. It’s colorful, with lines? Drawings?

I can see people in the shot. The backs of heads, cosplayers—and then I see the World of Warcraft guy who just stopped by our table.